


Heat

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's prone to pneumonia. Five people take care of him in their own special way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

1.

When Dean wakes up, the first thing he notices is how cold his feet are; they're sticking out from his blanket. He groans and tucks them back under the covers, wiggling his toes. The air is musky, a scent that he hasn't managed to get used to for the past two months. Sam wrinkles his nose every time they come home, but he's learned not to complain about it by now.

Dean tries to open his eyes to check the clock, but he realizes that his head feels like a huge melon, lopsided on his neck. He freezes, holds his breath: then takes a practice swallow.

Aw, man. He lifts a hand to make sure that there really aren't razor blades lodged in his neck.

"Dean."

Dean groans and turns his face into the pillow. "Go 'way."

A hesitation, then a poke to his shoulder. "Deeeean."

"Noooo."

"You look funny."

"Y're face looks f'nny."

"You sound funny, too."

Dean makes a noise that he'll deny to his last day. "Pl'se. Go 'way." God, this sucks. He shudders and pulls the blanket up over his head. Why is it so _cold_?

Sam pads across the floor and heads out into the hallway. Things go a little hazy for a moment or ten minutes or an hour before there's a heavy, worn hand on his forehead. It smells like oil and gun powder. Dad sighs and takes the hand away.

"Sammy, go to the living room."

"But -"

"Now, Sam."

Dean doesn't have to open his eyes to see that Sam is pouting; the door closes a bit too loudly behind him. He's gotten more of a mouth now that he's turned nine.

"All right, I need you to sit up a little."

Dean tries to say "no way, Jose," but all that comes out is a pathetic groan. He slams his mouth shut and feels his face heat up.

"I know, dude. Just a minute. You gotta take some meds."

Dean shakes his head weakly. "No. You need those."

Dad sighs. " _You_ do. I'm telling you to take them, and you're going to take them, understand? I can get more, it's not a problem."

Still Dean hesitates, but he opens his mouth obediently when the vein in Dad's forehead starts to throb.

"Thank you," Dad says, almost sarcastically, but he frowns and smoothes down Dean's hair. It's starting to clump to his forehead with sweat. "I'm going to take Sammy to school."

Dean hears the unspoken question. "Yeah," he clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll be good."

Dad watches him for a moment before nodding. "Fine," he says. "Stay in bed. Don't move. If I find that you've moved, I'll kick your ass." His mouth quirks, lessening the blow of the words.

"Yes, sir."

By the time Dad gets back, Dean is almost in agony; his skin feels like it's on fire and there's an elephant sitting on his chest. He can only wheeze, and even that's painful, and he tries his hardest not to cry.

"Hey, bud."

"Sucks," Dean gets out. "God, Dad -" his throat shuts down, and all he can do is make pathetic little noises. He kind of wants to die so Dad doesn't have to see him like this, see how weak and worthless he is.

To his mild surprise, Dad lifts him up and pats him back, dislodging the mucus that's been building in the back of his throat. He coughs it out and Dad wipes it away without a second thought; his expression is almost helpless, like he's out of his element, and somehow that makes Dean feel better.

"Hey," Dad begins, somewhat awkwardly. "If you want - we can hang out in the living room. Watch some TV. You need to eat, anyway. We might have some soup."

"Nothing good is on TV during the day," Dean says once he trusts his lungs to continue inflating on schedule.

"We've got a VCR." Dad smirks. "Think we have The Lion King."

Even rolling his eyes hurts. "Pulp Fiction."

"Yeah, man. We'll see."

Dean's not sure what happens after that, but the next time he opens his eyes, he's on the couch. He groans to himself, trying to push the image of Dad carrying him out of his mind.

"All right, soup time."

His stomach churns, although he tries a spoonful. It's not bad, but he can't manage much, and he waves Dad away when it's half gone.

"Good kid."

His throat still hurts, chest sore from coughing, and he can't fall back to sleep completely, only dozing lightly. Dad sighs and sits on the couch, bouncing his legs up and down. When it's time for the second dose of antibiotics, Dad hesitates before he pulls Dean down on his chest and threads a hand through his hair. Dean freezes, stiff and awkward, but he loosens after Dad pats his chest.

"Don't worry. I won't tell Sammy."

2.

Dean sits on the curb outside the bar and lights up a cigarette. The sign above him flickers in and out, sometimes reading Bo's Billiards, other times reading o's lliards. His phone sits heavy in his pocket; he pulls it out and checks for a missed call, a text message, but there's nothing. Dad split from him two days ago and he hasn't heard anything since. It's hardly anything new, but it still puts his stomach in knots.

Dean inhales the smoke and chokes a bit, his chest protesting. His head feels fuzzy, brain slow and stupid. Fucking fantastic.

"Smoking isn't good for you, you know. Especially when you're sick."

A woman sits on the curb next to him, smoothing out her skirt. She looks like a girl Sam would go for. Classy. Her hair is neatly tied back with a clip, swept up and away from her face. Blue eyes, calm, non-judging despite what she just said. Why the fuck she came to this bar, Dean has no clue.

"Thank you, strange lady I've never met." He takes another hit to spite her, but she only raises an eyebrow, unfazed.

"No problem," she says. "I figured it was something you've never heard before."

Dean barks out a laugh, then coughs. It doesn't quite manage to cover her snort.

"I've never seen you around here before."

"Passing through, I guess."

She nods. "Figured." She taps her temple. "I'm smart like that."

Dean chews on the end of his cigarette. "I bet."

"So. Would you believe me if I told you that you looked lonely?"

"That's usually my line."

Her mouth quirks. "Good to know I could change it up for you." She nudges his knee with her own. "What do you say to getting out of here and talking a bit more?"

Granted, the line is weak, and Dean is tempted to tease her about it - but her eyes are scarily familiar, lonely and sad with that hint of bravado. Strangely hopeful. She doesn't want him to ask questions. She doesn't need him to.

Dean knows how she feels.

"Absolutely," Dean says, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand for her.

"Such a gentleman," she teases, but accepts his hand and holds on to it all the way to the Impala. Her grip is warm, comforting. He squeezes her fingers.

She settles in the car like she belongs in that passenger seat, leather almost contorting with her. She starts humming under her breath to the music.

"Like Pearl Jam?"

" _All the love gone bad,_ " she quotes ahead of the song and smirks. "Yeah, I dig 'em. Why, do I need to in order to pass some test?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

She laughs. "Good to know, okay. And don't worry, I'll be throwing some of my own tests out there, too."

Dean raises an eyebrow and shifts in his seat. _Nice._

To her credit, she doesn't say anything when she sees Dean's motel, with the paint peeling off the sides and the number crooked on his door. The lock seems to be on its last legs, and Dean is careful when he slips the key in it and pushes the door open. There's the lingering smell of smoke and the yellow bedspread clashes with the blue wallpaper, but she toes off her shoes and tosses her purse by the bed without hesitation.

"Sorry it's not fit for a lady."

"It'll do," she smiles, and she takes hold of the front of his shirt and pulls him toward her. Her lips are soft against his neck; she smells like strawberries, and he buries his nose in her hair.

"You're hot," she murmurs against his skin, then clarifies. "Warm." She pulls back and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, slipping a hand against his chest. "Feels like you've got a fever, babe."

"It's fine."

She frowns. "No, it's not." She presses her hand harder and leans in. "Listen, you sound all wheezy. Rattly."

"Rattly?"

She's not deterred. "Your face is flushed. Do you have any juice or something around here? You need fluids."

"No juice. Sorry. Got Johnny, though."

She scrunches up her nose. "No way, man. Here, lean against the headboard. It'll be easier for you to breathe that way."

Suddenly Dean's irritated. "I know how to take care of myself, thanks. We gonna fuck or not?"

Unfazed, she slips off the bed and roots through her purse. "Or not. I have some Advil in here. You're going to take some."

"I have my own Advil."

She actually waves a finger in front of his face. "Take. The damn. Advil."

Dean shuts up and accepts the pills, swallowing them down. She nods to herself and slings her purse over her shoulder. "I'm going to grab something from the vending machine for you. Hold on a sec."

"Wait -" he starts to protest, but she's already gone, the door closing with a quiet click behind her.

How the hell did he go from nearly getting laid to getting babied?

In the few minutes she's gone, he goes from being slightly tired to completely exhausted, only just managing to keep his eyes pried open. Suddenly there's a cool hand against his forehead, the smell of strawberries. "Hey. It's trite, but I've got some ginger ale for you."

"I don't feel sick to my stomach." Yet.

He can almost hear her shrug. "Hey, I'm improvising. Going with the classics."

Granted, the soda does feel good going down his throat, which is starting to ache. He intakes a breath, which instigates a coughing fit so violent he wonders if he broke a fucking rib. Maybe he'll die here, on this shitty motel bedspread while his potential one-night stand rubs his back and makes soothing sounds. He wonders if she'd just leave his body there and run for the hills. He couldn't blame her.

When he finally emerges, Dean's face feels wet, and he groans that he fucking _cried._ Yeah yeah, natural reaction and all, but - _cried._ He lets his body fall forward and presses his face into the mattress, trying to ignore where this mattress has been. Or what has _been_ on top of it, rather.

"You done?"

Dean makes a grunting sound, hoping that's answer enough.

"Awesome. You don't happen to have any cough meds on you, do ya?"

"No," Dean mumbles. "I'm a man. Men don't need cough medicine."

"You have got to be kidding me. Good goddamn. You are such a _baby._ "

"Not a baby. _Man._ "

"Yeah, well, it's insulting to imply that only women are weak enough to need medicine, dipshit."

Dean swallows, then grimaces. "S'ry. You're right."

She runs a hand through his hair. "You're all sweaty. You want a sponge bath?"

He knows she's kidding, and he attempts a leer: judging by her eyes softening, he fails. "Naw. I'll -" he coughs and clears his throat. "I'll shower later."

"Hmm," she says, and she manages to pull him upright and lean him against the headboard. "I'll run down to the pharmacy down the block and pick you up some things. Stay here, yeah?"

"You don't have to," Dean says, placing a hand against his chest. "Seriously. I'll be fine." He feels guilty about her going out of her way.

"It's fine," she parrots back, hopping off the bed. "I'll only be a minute."

Dean manages to doze off again, but stirs when she coaxes him awake, opening his mouth to swallow the cough medicine.

"Atta boy," she says, and Dean starts, hearing a scratchy voice and the rough feel of a beard against his forehead. Suddenly the TV is clicked on: loud at first until she quickly lowers the volume. She sits next to him on the bed and stretches out her legs. "Naptime."

"Uh," Dean mumbles. "It's probably awkward to ask now, but...what's your name?"

She smiles and pats his leg. "Chelsea. It's Chelsea."

"Hi, Chelsea," Dean says, closing his eyes. "You're a pretty girl. Sorry I didn't say that sooner."

She laughs. "It's okay. Now go to sleep. You're sounding delirious."

"Dean," Dean manages to mutter before he drops off to sleep, and the last thing he feels is her taking his hand.

"Good night, Dean."

3.

"Isn't it fascinating how weak the human body can be? I can cut you into a pretty picture for hours and hang you on my wall; you can still manage to spit at me when I'm finished. But a few little bacteria crawl right into you and you're as weak as a kitten. Your body can't decide if it's hot or cold, those little lungs like deflated balloons."

They say hell is hot - and well, isn't it ironic that _they_ have never been, yet claim to have knowledge of hell's inter-workings. It certainly has its moments, but hell is controlled by its residents, can change in the blink of an eye simply due to a whim. The demons are unaffected, their souls have long been torn and tattered but desensitized to its environment. Pain is still there, absolutely, but they don't sweat, they don't shiver. They don't even notice the difference until the souls scream and writhe as they burn hot or cold.

Turns out Dean's body is just as susceptible down here as it ever was topside. Hell is at least consistent, each day promising the same thing - that will never change. Today, he's encased in ice, his limbs and torso swallowed whole and held frozen in place. He can't even shiver, but little breaths of air escape his lips, clouds of smoke that almost smile as they disappear beyond the chains. He wants to die, wants the ice to shatter his bones into thousands of pieces until he can't feel anymore.

Alastair starts chipping into the ice, raising a claw; fire spits out sparks from one talon, and Alastair sings as he melts the ice, little by little, Dean's body growing lighter as the weight slips away.

"Let's allow your nerves to remember what they're there for, shall we? It's not too fun if they're slacking on the job."

It should be a relief when the ice is gone, but there's only pain as his skin regains feeling. He screams and screams, drowning out Dean Martin's _Gentle On My Mind_ as the fire takes hold. His breath fails him after a minute and all he can do is cough, his chest about to explode, and he can't see his ribcage today, he can't.

"I don't know which I prefer, personally," Alastair says as his blowtorch continues to kiss Dean's flesh. "It's been so long since I've felt either hot or cold. Perhaps cold - it's...more intimate, wouldn't you say? Hmm. You don't look well, and I need you to be at your peak. Today might be the day, after all! I think I have something for you to make you feel better; open up, baby birdie."

Alastair's tomato rice soup burns holes in Dean's throat, the grain filling his lungs until there's no space left. Alastair's right: it does make him feel better, puts him back in that one moment of peace that he ever gets before he's rebuilt for another round.

4.

"The car sounds funny."

Dean raises an eyebrow at Lisa and takes a pull of beer. "You're going to have to define _funny._ "

Lisa shrugs. "You know. Funny." She makes a sound between half cricket and half walrus.

Dean blinks at her. "Uh, okay. You just noticed this today?"

"Maybe - a few days ago?"

"And you didn't think to tell me _then_?"

"I thought it would go away."

Dean doesn't bother opening that can of worms. "All right, I'll take a look." He finishes off his beer and stands, then wobbles. Whoa.

"You okay?" Lisa takes his elbow: not pushing, not grabbing, just - there.

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean says, leaning in to brush his lips against her temple. He rests there for a minute to regain his balance before pulling away. Lisa rests her hands on his waist.

"I love you," she says.

Dean's a little taken aback, the statement strong but abrupt, her eyes looking over his face with a hint of desperation. She doesn't seem to be expecting a reciprocation, only something that she wants him to know.

He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "You know - you know, right?" The words sit heavy on his tongue like an anvil and he can't push them out.

"I know," she answers, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Okay, go fix stuff."

It's freezing in the garage, but Dean sticks with the t-shirt and pops the hood. He snorts when he finds the loose alternator belt and starts to unscrew the mounting bolts. Easy fix.

When he intakes a breath, his chest protests, his vision almost going white with the pain. He has to sit down for a moment, his balance going slightly off-kilter. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on short inhalations while a headache starts to make itself known, and he massages his temples, swallowing down a groan. Fuck, this sucks.

The door from the house opens and arms wrap around him, one hand splaying against his neck.

"Can you stand?" Lisa murmurs, her breath warm against Dean's ear. It makes him shudder.

"Yeah," he croaks, then coughs. "I'm fine."

"Good grief," Lisa says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. "Come on, up. I'll help you."

There's a moment when Dean's not sure he's going to make it, his headache doubling as Lisa pulls him up, but she lets him rest against her while he gets his breath back.

"Okay?"

"Mm hmm."

He's not sure how, but Lisa manages to get him inside with relative ease and lays him down on their bed. He's more than content with curling against his pillow and dropping off to sleep, but she taps his nose.

"I'm going to start a bath, okay, baby? It'll be good for you."

"No bath," Dean mutters. "I haven't had a bath since I was four." He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels another coughing fit coming on, holding his breath in his best attempt to suppress it.

"We'll take a bath, adult style."

"Adult style?"

"Yep," Lisa says, and Dean peers at her when her tone changes, pitch becoming lower. Suddenly her mouth is hot on his collarbone, and _oh_. Yeah, he's more than okay with that idea. "I'll take good care of you, okay? Leave everything to me."

This bout might not be so bad after all.

When the bath is finished, Lisa hoists him up again and starts removing his clothes piece by piece. Her mouth lingers on his bare skin, intimate but not overly sexual. Heat pools in his stomach but he doesn't have enough energy to do anything about it, much to his chagrin. He sighs when she settles him in the tub, the water at the perfect temperature. His muscles seem to loosen almost immediately. Lisa pulls her hair up into a bun before she reaches for her own t-shirt, pulling it over her head and unhooking her bra. She's as beautiful as she ever was, tan skin smooth and flawless, and when she climbs in with him he pulls her close, resting his head against her chest and stroking her sides.

"Gonna get you sick," he says against her breast, and she laughs.

"Try not to sneeze into my mouth."

"That's sexy," he says, but he closes his eyes and holds her tight.

She starts humming under her breath, a song Dean doesn't recognize, and lathers up his hair, giving his scalp a little scratch every now and then. He lets himself drift, going limp against her, trusting her with his weight. He absently presses a kiss to her chest.

"This is much better than how Chelsea did it," Dean mumbles. "And -" He shudders as his throat gives a sharp, phantom pain, and his grip tightens further. Lisa's hands stops momentarily before continuing.

"Who's Chelsea?" Her tone is only slightly curious.

"Just a girl." Dean focuses on her soft touch and warm skin. _Lisa. It's only Lisa._

"Ah," she says. There's a smile in her voice. "And what did this Chelsea do?"

"Made me drink ginger ale. And cough medicine." It hurts to talk, and it's more of a struggle to breathe, so he quiets, lining up his breathing with hers.

Lisa hums. Her hand dips below the water. "We'll get to that part later, but yeah, I like my way better, too."

5.

The motel's air conditioning is broken, but he doesn't care. His shirt sticks to his chest, damp with sweat, and he can only breathe out through his mouth slowly, each breath carefully measured. When he closes his eyes, he can still taste Bobby's ashes on his tongue.

Sam moves quietly through the room, the lights dimmed. Dean drifts in and out to the sound of water running, of Sam brushing his teeth, of Sam switching off the TV.

Sam sam sam.

"You remember that time in Ohio when you passed out getting out of the car? I was what, eleven?"

Dean grunts and struggles to keep his head clear enough to listen.

"Dad was so pissed," Sam continues, his voice soft. "He acted like he was pissed that you'd been hiding the fact that you were sick, but I think he was actually pissed because he didn't realize it himself."

Dean doubts that, but he doesn't bother putting up a protest. That familiar chest pain screams at him, but he can't hold back a cough; mucus flies out of his mouth and against his palm. His heartbeat is loud in his ears and his breath stutters, matching the chills that have overtaken his body. Goddamn, it's cold, the dried sweat making him shiver.

Sam makes a soft noise above him and sits on the edge of the bed. "Think you can keep the antibiotics down?"

Dean doesn't think so, his stomach's tempted to rebel, and he doesn't want to let the pills go to waste. Sam pries his mouth open anyway and slips them inside; Dean almost expects Sam to massage his throat to help them go down. He swallows and slaps a hand over his mouth, forcing them to stay down along with the Gatorade Sam has practically been force-feeding him for the past three hours.

"You've got it. Swallow and hold it down, there you go."

Dean doesn't quite trust his stomach just yet, so he keeps his hand pressed against his mouth. "You gonna tell me everything is okay while we hold hands?" he says through his fingers.

"No," Sam says, voice even. "Because it's not. It's not okay. Who knows if it ever will be. But I'm willing to find out. Are you?"

Dean throws the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, tucking his arms against his chest to try to keep the chills at bay. His teeth chatter; how is it so _cold_ , he never thought he'd be this cold ever again. He wants to tell Sam no, he's not willing, but when he looks at Sam's own tired smile and sad eyes, he can only pat Sam's leg.

"Awesome," Sam murmurs, pulling up the covers up to Dean's neck. "Let's do this."


End file.
